Not Counted
by imagia-quill
Summary: John wasn't the only person who didn't tell Sherlock to piss off when he deduced their history. But of course, Molly never counted. This is what happened when Sherlock first met Molly. Gen, pre-John, could be seen as pre-Sherlolly. T for mentions of past substance abuse and rehab.


**Not Counted  
** by: imagia-quill

::

" _Because I know what it means, looking sad when you think no one can see you."_

"You _can see me."_

" _I don't count."_

 _She never counted._

::

 _London, November 2009_

Three deaths.

"Come on, now, Sherlock, we've got no time to lose–"

A portion of his brain must have proceeded what Lestrade had said because he stepped out of the car, although without so much a reply to him. But he didn't break his train of thoughts. As he followed Lestrade into the building, he recited all the facts he had on the case, trying to find a plausible hypothesis, whilst enjoying the whirring of his brain being back on work.

Victims all women around the age of mid-twenties. All found in their bedrooms and calculated to be dead since midnight– the most common time and place to commit suicide. All victims also found to be in possession of a strange piece of clockwork talismans on their office desks, which arrival could not be explained– main link that connected the three deaths. Talismans were that from the days of the rise of steam engines, apparently had never belonged and/or seen to be worn by victims, and were not there before the death of the victims–a warning that came late, or a message informing the occurrence. Recent visit of the crime scene told that the latest victim was left-handed, but the suicide cut had been found on the left wrist– death made to look like suicide, assailant was not familiar with the victim's habit.

Conclusion– three connected murders.

Sherlock had just left the crime scene to go to Barts to examine the other two bodies of the previous victims, his stride elegant but his spirit as energetic as a bloodhound on a hot scent. He didn't even complain for having to leave his experiments at ten in the morning. Whatever annoyed feeling he had felt for Lestrade (for not taking his opinion about the second death into account) had evaporated into thin air, replaced by a pleasant feeling on his temple whenever he could put his head on work.

It had been ages since the last time he felt something like this. The last two years had been a blur of pain, dehydrating his body as he rose from the floor drenching in sweat, emptying his stomach into the toilet seat, and his mind basically being useless as the effect of the drugs he had been consuming but not entirely lulled to peace either. Detoxing; it was a bit hard to believe that he left the hellish rehab just a week ago. But, well, it was worth the thrill he was feeling now. And deep down, he felt grateful for his brother's advice about this job.

The nearby CCTV camera pivoted slightly from its original position and Sherlock professionally put on a mask of expression, careful not to leak his emotions to Mycroft. God knows how manipulative his brother could be upon finding out anyone's weakness.

Several corridors and double-doors later, Lestrade stopped walking in front of a door, the glass window beside it showed a woman working with several pincers and glass slides.

"Ah, there's Molly, our pathologist. Look here, Sherlock, she's one of my most-respected colleague, and if you are to continue this job, you will be very likely to work with her every now and then, so I recommend you not to scare her," Lestrade said then entered through the door, but Sherlock did not pay any attention to his recommendation.

They entered the mortuary and when the girl looked up from her business, Sherlock couldn't help but let his mind took the chance of consuming all the evidences around him.

This girl– female, age between thirty to mid-thirties but her high ponytail, choice of wardrobe and accessories suggested juvenility. Right hand visibly more accustomed to minute movements –right handed– but her left hand subconsciously crossed over to right upper hand at the sight of an unfamiliar male visitor– shy, insecure. Worked as a pathologist but physically healthy despite the high level of contamination– committed to strict diet (breath suggested a faint trace of cheese– not a vegetarian) and healthy lifestyle (petite posture, developed leg muscles, shoulders width did not exceed the width of hips but with developed muscles– a fan of jogging, slight chance of being an occasional swimmer, but not before puberty). Distinct cat's scratch near the wrist– a cat person, liked to play with them, might own one or two but impossible to judge from lab attire. Slight indications of fringe usually parted in the middle, nails cut short but not painted, ears pierced but bare of any accessories– more than happy to follow the job's protocol, but actually practical in soul.

"Morning, Molly. Sorry to barge in so early in the day but I'm afraid we have another of those _apparent_ suicide. Killers still not that good at making natural suicide scene"–here he nodded at Sherlock, acknowledging his opinion about the second death ( _if only you hadn't been so dense then_ , Sherlock sighed mentally) – "and the third body is on the way. Just found out about it this morning.

"Oh, and this is Sherlock Holmes, one of our–"

Sherlock interrupted before Lestrade could even introduce him as _one of his investigative service_. Investigative service filed him under the same section as that Anderson bloke.

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, I invented the job so of course you had never heard of that. Now, shall we proceed to the cadavers?"

Sherlock extended his hand for a handshake, more because he was too on fire to actually annoy the girl than for the sake of customs, so he was rather surprised too to see the girl took his hand and shook it. Molly looked like she had a dozen or so questions in her head, which made an awful lot of disturbance for Sherlock, but she settled for a formal introduction.

"Molly Hooper, nice to meet–"

Now the formalities had gone too far.

"Can you kindly show us Miss Howell's body?" Sherlock repeated, jumping to the matters of importance. He had seen the photograph of the first victim and all the evidences from Lestrade's files, but he needed to personally examine the cadaver to test his theories.

Upon his rude remark, Lestrade seemed like he wanted to smack his palm into his forehead, and Molly looked offended, but Sherlock was too excited to care. The pathologist seemed to recover from her thoughts quick enough to lead him to one of the metal slabs with a body bag on it. She opened it smoothly without a second of hesitation.

"Ah well, you're quite right, Greg," Molly said to Lestrade as Sherlock took his time to examine the body. "The first and the second aren't suicide. There's a large concentration of serotonin and oxytocin in their blood, but very low cortisol. They weren't aware of their looming death."

"See? _Now_ you're getting somewhere," Sherlock muttered, but quite audibly for Lestrade to hear his sarcasm. There was a moment of awkward silence, in which Sherlock indulge himself with analyzing the cadaver. He asked to be shown the second body, and continued to assess them. In the end, he decided four of his theories were not plausible, leaving the other three yet to be tested.

Sherlock then rose to his feet, bouncing a little on his heels in excitement. Finally, something to look forward to aside of his trivial chemical experiments. "Right, that's been most enlightening. But I'm afraid I need to be here again very late in the night today for further examination. You could leave me the keys to this room and the lab, in case a long discussion ensues after you _dump_ him tonight."

Lestrade looked like he would be giving Sherlock a lecture after this, and Molly looked like she had just been slapped. Sherlock was used to this so he only raised his eyebrows.

"Uh, I'm not sure I'm allowed to give keys," she said indecisively in a small voice before quickly adding, louder and more coherent than before, "sorry, I thought you say 'dump him'–"

Sherlock knew the moment would come –it always came every time he pointed out something about someone that the mundane eyes didn't seem to register– but he would do anything just to stop that annoying sound her confused head made.

"Yes, you are going to dump your boyfriend, seeing that you just cut your curls last night, leaving only your natural straight hair visible, and that you've stopped wearing his silver bracelet today," Sherlock elaborated, his gaze darting from her nametag, to the end of her hair, to her wrist, as though almost shouting at her to follow his train of thoughts.

"But how do you know it's tonight–?" Molly argued, but the latter cut her off.

"Of course it's tonight; a woman with your personality and routine– when else would you do that?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes after explaining this, hoping that his explanation would simplify matters instead of rousing a sense of strong dislike towards him, which usually happened on people, more often than not. There was a short, almost comical, moment of silence, before Molly released a giggle she seemed to be holding.

"That was… incredible!" Molly remarked, with something between a huge gape and a wide astonished grin crossed her face; clearly not what Sherlock had expected. She looked more breath-taken by the accuracy of his deductions than by the fact that Sherlock just implied that she had a failing relationship.

A slab on which the third body was carried entered the mortuary, wheeled by two other coroners. Molly turned to help them arrange the slab but Sherlock only cocked his head at Molly's remark.

"That's not what people usually say," he commented. Molly looked up from the slab to look at him before professionally took her clipboard from a nearby desk and began to inspect the body. The two coroners left the room, saying a couple of casual greetings to Lestrade; he almost forgot Lestrade was there.

"What do they usually say, then?" she asked, a hint of smile on her voice.

A corner of his lips quirked up, the idea of Molly unable to automatically conjure the picture, of people telling Sherlock to piss off every time he deduced their history out of them, was almost amusing. "'Piss off.'"

::

" _Extraordinary. It was quite… extraordinary."_

" _It's not what people normally say."_

" _What do people normally say?"_

"' _Piss off.'"_

::

" _I don't count."_

::

 **A/N:** Wow, whoop I made a thing! Though I'm not sure this is something I should be proud of *looks back up at what I've written and covered my face*. Just to make things clear though:

1\. The case is adapted from Colleen Gleason's _The Clockwork Scarab_ (you should totally check that book out!). I was reading it when this headcanon popped in my head, so I'm really sorry if the case is not original. I'm not that clever apparently *hides in the corner of my closet hoping you guys won't hate me*

2\. The only thing I came up with is Sherlock's deduction about Molly, and even I'm not sure it makes enough sense.

So, yeah, those things just about sum it all, so lastly… Review? Constructive criticism and feedback are most welcomed! :)


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